To Mary Anning, who taught me how to dream and also the cost of dreaming.

The whipcrack of thunder pulled Mary free from the clutches of a bad dream.

Upon waking, pain greeted her in the form of a jagged stone lodged around inside her chest. Clutching at it, she pushed herself up on the bed, joints creaking like rusted hinges. Hard, swollen raindrops hammered the window. She looked outside.

On the hills, trees swayed like grass in the wind, while off the coast black clouds lashed at roiling water with whips of white fire. Storms were common in Dorset. 

With the sun hidden, she could not say how long she’d slept. Nothing was in want of her doing these days, besides the wait, and she could do that while sleeping. Mary reached for the vial on the nightstand, which was nearly empty, but the remaining medicine would be enough to ease the pain and let her rest a little longer. 

Lightning struck an elm as she was unscrewing the vial. She saw it from the corner of her eye, not unlike the strike in her childhood that had killed three women, but spared her. Some said the incident had blessed her with her intellect.

She had been clever once, not so long ago, but her wits deserted her as she drowned in the watery depths of opioid-induced numbness. She missed the clarity. Putting down the unopened vial, Mary marched downstairs to break her fast on stale bread, determined to survive the day without the drug.

By the time she finished her meal, the storm had broken. Outside, townsfolk worked together to clear debris and repair storefronts. Rainwater turned the street into a mirror, reflecting the sunlit scene in near perfect detail, save when footsteps cast ripples across the glassy surface. Mary helped the Butterworths fix their fruit stall, then headed to St Michael’s for the Eucharist.

***

She had just found a place on an empty pew at the back when Elizabeth Philpot walked in. The grey-haired woman went past Mary and sat down near the dais beside three high society friends.

After the priest had entered and the chatter started dying down, Mary found herself picking out from the crowd other former members of the Dissenters’ chapel.

The congregation dispersed not long after the death of the kindly Reverend Wheaton. Many, like Mary, drifted over to the Church of England. She was an Anglican now, like all of the respectable academics—like everyone else. We are not dissenters anymore, she thought glumly as the priest began reciting his homily. 

As she took the sacrament and ate of the blood and flesh of Christ, her thoughts were on Christ’s mother. The veneration of Mary was something else she’d gotten used to after her conversion, and the old prayer entered her mind. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus… 

She thought of her own mother, whose name was also Mary though everyone called her Molly. While she was a world-renowned fossil hunter, she wondered if Molly, who’d run the family fossil shop until her passing, would be remembered much as Mother Mary was: foremost for the child she bore. 

Her introspection was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Mary, my dear,” said Elizabeth, smiling over her, lively as ever. “So sorry I missed you. I wasn’t sure you were still coming.”

“I come less and less these days, Elizabeth,” she said. “But I’m feeling well today.”

Even as she said the words, a dull pain racked her body, but if she’d just believed she was strong, maybe she’d be able to transcend the confines of the flesh, just for a day…

“Are you sure, my dear? You don’t seem—” 

“It’s nothing.” Mary forced a smile. My bones feel like glass. “In fact, I was just wondering if you would accompany me for a dig this afternoon. The weather’s been perfect.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure dear, you seem like you need a r—”

“Not at all!” She said, holding her smile, trying to feel it. After a while, she wore her down, and they agreed to meet her at the cliff after lunch.

***

Mary was waiting with her tools in a wicker basket when Elizabeth showed up, not in the silk finery she’d worn at Mass, but in weathered and roughspun travelling clothes. In that way, the pair seemed more than friends, they resembled peers.

 The sun had come into its full radiance, blessing them with light and warmth. The storm had done its part, carving away at the cliff face to expose any fossil hiding just beneath the surface. Yet, after nearly an hour of trekking and searching, they’d found only a single, tiny ammonite, and Mary was quite out of breath.

“Maybe we should take a break,” Elizabeth said.

They sat upon smooth pebbles to watch the waves. Elizabeth did most of the talking, for as Mary listened to stories about her London trip, she realized there was nothing in her life she felt like sharing. Mostly she just sat around the house, waiting. 

“Well, today’s just been a bit of bad luck, hasn’t it?” Elizabeth said. “Still, it’s lovely to be out here again. It’s good to get away from the afternoon tea and gossip for a little while.”

“I haven’t found anything big these last few years,” Mary admitted. “Even the small ones are getting scarce, and they don’t go for much anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear. Are you getting by?”

“I’ll manage. I always have. Besides, I have the annuity from the Geological Society.” She had William Buckland to thank for that, and Elizabeth who’d made the introduction. “Maybe it’s bad luck, or maybe everything has an end.” She pointed to the ammonite. 

“On a different note.” Elizabeth picked up the shell. “What do you think our finds mean for the biblical accounts of creation? I hear the gentlemen of the Geological Society are getting rather heated over it.”

“That’s because they try too hard to fit the evidence to their preferred hypotheses about the Lord’s Creation.” Mary scoffed.“If we look only at the evidence, it’s clear that there existed species in the past which have ceased to be, that differ from present forms of life and yet seem related. An ammonite’s shell resembles a mollusk’s, and the bones of Icthyosaurus are akin to that of any extant vertebrate. 

“Perhaps the latter descended from the former, as did I from my mother, and she from hers. The only constant in the world is change, and we must all adapt to it. Perhaps life has done the same.”

“Have you shared this with anyone else?”

“Only in a letter to a friend two years ago.” Mary shrugged. “There’s not much point. It’s not as though my prior ideas have gained any traction with the esteemed members of the Society. They want my finds, not my thoughts.”

The other sighed and put a hand on her shoulder. “If change is a constant, perhaps one day us women will have places amongst academics.”

“That’s part of it,” Mary said, feeling hot in her face. Of course Elizabeth could think of eventualities and respect. “But you have a name and inheritance. You can collect fossils and study them at leisure, you have access to any book or paper you could want. I am forced to sell my finds, even those I risked my life for, to scientists eager to take credit, just to make it through the week.”

She wondered if she hadn’t more in common with the cliffs, worn down and stripped of her prized resources, than with the scientists whom she’d once considered peers. Her chest was aching again. Perhaps there was no escape in this life, neither from her flesh nor her birth.  

“Life has been unkind to you, I know.” Elizabeth’s eyes cast about for something to pick up on the ground nearby. Finding nothing, they rose again to meet Mary’s. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” she said, her voice tinged with melancholy. “Perhaps you share something of the Blessed Mother’s fate, delivering your grace for the benefit and prestige of others.”

Mary considered that a while. Then, feeling abashed, she said, “I’m sorry, that outburst was untoward, I’ve just spent too long ruminating. Let’s keep going.”

But as the two stood, a terrible pain split her shinbones, and her friend had to catch her before she fell.

“I think we’ve done enough for today,” she said. “Let’s get you home.”

Once Elizabeth had left her alone at the door of her house, Mary rushed to the bedroom and drank her medicine. She sat on the side of her bed massaging the hard lump in her breast, sighing softly. 

She went out again to the cliff at sunset, this time without her tools, to sit on the pebbles and watch the sun struggle in the water like a spent swimmer, her orange body thrashing upon the waves before she finally went under.